


sprouting through the heart

by mish_mish



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Connor Deserves Happiness, Denial of Feelings, Everything is Beautiful and Everything Hurts, Feelings Realization, Flowers Sprout Slowly on Connor's body, Hanahaki AU, Language of Flowers, M/M, Markus (Detroit: Become Human) Plays the Piano, Protective Markus (Detroit: Become Human), Pure Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Slow Burn, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Worried Hank Anderson, there would be some plot twist idk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-11-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 03:40:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15379863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mish_mish/pseuds/mish_mish
Summary: hanahaki au with a slightly distorted perception of the original disease.Flowers with petals fragile as crystal, seem painfully beautiful in his hands.Connor looks at them and strokes the petals with his fingers, tearing off their weak stems from his body.He collects these flowers in bouquets and hardly understands what the roots mean that sprout inside him.





	1. White Freesia

**Author's Note:**

> I worked very long on this story and I very much hope that I managed to convey the beauty of this au despite the fact that English is not my native language.

[](https://ibb.co/bQWKyd) [](https://ibb.co/cRUiPJ)

Fingers gently touch the piano keys, as if these are not ordinary plastic components that imitate the ivory, but something more. As if the piano keys are hands that use the touch of other people to create beautiful music inside the piano. The thought is fleeting, which Connor shakes off, like a speck of dust from a suit. He does not know what this feeling is: the analysis does not show the exact data, so he does not want to return to this thought. He is still not used to feelings. He prefers to experience already familiar sensations that do not leave unanswered questions in his program. But the feeling he felt when looking at Markus, who played the piano, was not something unpleasant. It was unusual, as if not just new, but also important.

Connor regularly visits the New Jericho; once a week for no more than twenty-five minutes to make sure that everything is fine. Communication with Markus and other androids has always been a pretty pleasant bonus to this, especially since Hank made it pretty clear that Connor needs to spend time not only in his company, but also with his people. Connor had nothing to say against this, because being in the company of Markus and other deviants was useful, almost necessary, especially when he faced new feelings and emotions.

Now the time of his visit is nearing its end, and Connor discovers some annoyance from this. He likes to listen to how Markus plays the piano, as if he not only gently presses the keys, but also plays a bit on Connor’s biocomponents as if they were the musical instrument in his hands. Everything inside Connor is trembling and vibrating with the sounds of music. That’s why Connor does not want to interrupt him. He wants to stay and continue to listen, he wants to continue to feel this excitement inside his systems, but his inner clock is already signaling that it’s time for him to leave, and Connor shifts awkwardly from one foot to the other. Markus notices this movement, although he does not even look in his direction. He is somewhere in his world, where there is only a melody and its beauty. But in fact he seemed to never look away from Connor, noticing his every movement and expression. He interrupts the song with a soft chord, rises gracefully from the piano and approaches to RK800, smiling gently.

“Are you leaving so soon?”

“Yes, I promised Hank to deal with the reports for the two last cases and take Sumo for a walk.”

His answers almost never changes. Connor always has other things to do, that do not really need a strict execution schedule, but he does not want to interrupt the habit.

Now with mild annoyance Connor realizes that in this visit to Jericho he didn’t get a chance to talk to Markus. It’s quite insignificant, but still negative.

“You know that you can stay longer; no one has set strict visiting frames.”

Connor shakes his head and for about a few seconds chooses which phrase to continue the conversation with. This resembles a time when he was not a deviant, when a dialogues window and various options for the success of the end of the conversation popped up. Now this is different; now the program is broken, but sometimes this habit is shown, especially in such situations, when a new sense of awkwardness floods.

Does he want to continue the conversation with Markus? Yes, without a doubt.  
Does he want to keep it in a more formal way? There is no need for this, they are alone in the room, and as Connor can see, their surroundings are rather informal, and the RK200 pose is more than relaxed and friendly, predisposed to communicate in a more free form.

“Are you analyzing me?” Markus smiles and takes a step closer.

“It’s not exactly what I …”

Markus does not need excuses, instead he looks at Connor a little longer than he’s supposed - twenty-three seconds longer than usual - and Connor already knows which topic to choose before leaving.

“The melody you played. I do not recognize it.”

“I wrote it myself,” Markus says, and notices how Connor looks at him, ready to protest, to say that it is not subject to androids to create art, and Markus does not blame him. It is more difficult for Connor to accept his deviation, because his program was created specifically against this kind of free will. But he learns, RK200 sees it and gives him time to learn. 

“I can teach you.”

“Unfortunately, time may not be enough …”

“And that will be the reason for you to stay longer on your next visit.” Markus smiles; he’s not expecting any response to this, but hoping for a nod anyway.

Connor feels another new feeling, which he learned no more than a week ago - embarrassment.

He would like to stay in Jericho, sit next to Markus at the piano and press his fingers on the keys. He would like to stay in Jericho and study something so beautiful that his rational thoughts turn into something strange and new. He would like that; there is no need to even think about it.

“Perhaps we should consider this possibility and…” under Markus’s mocking look, RK800 gives up and also slightly stretches his lips in a smile. “Yes, I would like to try to play some music. But now I have to go. Sorry to interrupt your play.”

Markus shakes his head, gently squeezes Connor’s shoulder and looks at him for the extra nine and a half seconds. There is no expression on his face, as if he wants to say something and this slightly confuses the RK800. They stand still for a few moments in an awkward silence, until Simon peeps into the room and reminds that the visit is over and that Hank’s car is at the main gate.

***

It’s still difficult for Connor to perceive his new emotions; every feeling is like a hurricane for him. And now, while sitting in the passenger seat of Hank’s car, he feels like something new and unfamiliar creeps into his mind; something soft, like Markus’s touch; something intense like Sumo, racing on a leash to the street. Something new.

Connor asks Hank about this, and the lieutenant frowns and casually asks about what happened in Jericho that brought this new feeling up.

“Markus said he would teach me how to play the piano and create my own music.” Connor says, looking out the window at the passing houses. “Androids can not create, it’s not in our program, but, apparently, deviancy contributes to the development of these skills. I would be interested in learning something like that.”

“Here’s the answer for you.” Hank says while parking the car at his house. “Anticipation. This new feeling is called anticipation. It’s when you are waiting for something very much.”

Hank gets out of the car, and Connor stays inside for a few seconds, looking down at his hands. Strongly waiting for something? Is he waiting for this piano lesson? Maybe he is. Connor does not want to calculate in percent, it’s definitely a nice feeling. Anticipation.

When he leaves the car, Connor meets a huge St. Bernard and thoughts of new feelings and knowledge disappear, giving way to the joy of seeing a happy dog. Yes, Connor puts these thoughts away, but the picture of how he will sit side by side with Markus on the bench in front of the piano, still does not disappear. A picture where the colors of their synthetic skin are so harmoniously combined with each other that if Connor could breathe, he would hold his breath. A picture where Markus carefully instructs and leads Connor to the right note, and…

“What did you fucking do in Jericho today?” Hank asks harshly. “Have you fallen into a flower bush?”

Connor looks at the lieutenant in surprise, not quite understanding his question, and how it can be related to Jericho. He did not see any flower bushes today, and did not fall into the flower beds. The question does not make sense.

“You have a flower behind your collar,” Hank nods at his neck and comes closer to pull the flower out. He puts it in the palm of Connor and moves back to the house, not caring anymore about the flowers. RK800, on the other hand, looks at the flower, analyzes it and does not know where it came from.

He holds a small white freesia with thin velvety petals and a light yellow core. Connor looks at the flower and sees only its standard characteristics:

_Freesia is a genus of African herbaceous perennial flowering plants in the family Iridaceae. Flower color is white. Freesia flower typically mean: friendship, trust, thoughtfulness._

There is not a single hint of where the flower came from.

Connor frowns slightly and follows Hank, not really knowing what to do with the flower.


	2. Purple Lilac

[ ](https://ibb.co/e7jEET)

Connor does not feel much discomfort; He does not think about the flower anymore, but almost every new day finds petals. He finds them at a table in the police department, on the couch next to Sumo, in the room that Hank assigned him. Cream-white petals with a yellow drop near the edge. _White freesia._

Connor gathers the petals and puts them in the drawer of the bedside table, not sure whether it is necessary to talk about this to Hank or not. There are not that many petals, only three pieces per day. There is nothing to worry about, because the flowers are harmless, it’s just a pair of petals, pulled out from behind the collar of a uniform. Connor prefers to think of them as something insignificant, that got to him by mistake, but no matter how many petals he removes, by the end of the day there a new one.

He thinks about Markus’s fingers on the piano, and the freesia flowers blossom on his neck behind the collar. Tiny and vulnerable flowers, as if they were made of glass. Connor believes that he can not enjoy the beauty, because in his program there is no such setting, but he looks at the flowers that he finds on his neck, and realizes that he fools himself. He already knows what beauty is, he has already seen and enjoyed it. Such beauty, as Markus, plays the piano. Such beauty, as the freesia flowers, that lying on his palm.

What is happening does not bother Connor; it does not poison his thoughts. The pump in his chest works properly, all of his systems are in excellent condition, the biocomponents are in good order and do not need replacement. The flowers are harmless and beautiful, and Connor thinks that it is not so difficult to pluck them from his neck.

Impatience and anticipation overwhelm Connor and make the thirium pump in his chest work faster. Finally he learns something new. He will again see Markus’s dark fingers on the keys, hear how he plays, and he even will try to play himself. New challenges are always excited for Connor.

“So you’re going to be late today?” Hank asks and looks at him through the rearview mirror. “Music lessons, huh?”

The phrase sounds mocking, and it even reflects in Anderson’s eyes, but Connor suddenly does not share his mood, feeling something similar with excitement. There are already three flowers and a dozen petals in his pockets, which he picked up for this day and it seems to slow down Connor from being able to respond with a slight joke.

“I think it might be interesting.” Connor says, scratching behind his collar and picking up the soft petals with his fingers. “And I…”

_Hybrid freesia, white.  
Trust, thoughtfulness._

The fourth flower per day. For the first time so many flowers in one day.

“Connor, are you okay?” Hank pats android’s shoulder and frowns at the flower in his hand.

“Everything is fine.”

Connor stretches his lips in a low-key half-smile and hides the flower in his pocket. Analysis freesia does not give anything, just the facts about the plant, no clues why he finds flowers. As Connor knows, flowers can not cause harm, especially these, with the size hardly more than the phalanx of his finger.

Connor does not feel anxiety or curiosity about the flowers when Josh meets him in New Jericho. All his thoughts about plants are drowned out by strong anticipation and pleasant vibration through the body from a casual conversation with Josh while he accompanies him to Markus. They talk about New Jericho, and Connor is interested in every detail, in every thing that is connected with the refuge of androids, because he knows that here he will always be received with open arms. New Jericho could be called his second home, but Connor still does not fully understand the concept of the home itself. Hank explained this to him, but sometimes some things just are not given as easily as others.

“Markus said that this time you will stay longer.” Josh casually puts his hand on Connor’s shoulder, and this touch does not seem out of place. Connor does not want to get rid of it. Through this touch there is a strong friendly connection feels between them.

“It’s good. It would be better, if you went more often than once a week, but it’s already good.” Josh smiles. “At least in your company, Markus rests. He seems to be working too hard for us.”

Connor nods; perhaps he himself would not mind coming more often, but something holds him away, something with porcelain petals and a fragrant smell. And this same feeling draws him back here with the thoughts that here he is always welcome and that Markus here always meets him with warmth. And everything is fine, except for a pair of petals, which Connor does not have time to catch, and they remain lying on the floor, like torn butterfly wings.

***

Markus’ studio is always lit by warm sunlight, which can be felt even with muffled sensitivity settings on synthetic skin. Connor can not say that he is delighted: he is not particularly strong in understanding art and how is best to furnish the room for it, but this abundance of light definitely amazes him.

Connor looks around. Shelves with books stand against the walls opposite the windows and next to them there is a tiny table. Everything here is isolated from any affairs connected with revolution and politics. When Connor steps into the studio, the musical instrument immediately attracts his attention. The piano is in the far left corner, its keys are shut with a lid, its lacquered light tree shines in the sun and it seems that the instrument is fast asleep, not at all ready to play today.

In the opposite corner is equipped with an art workshop. A variety of paints and brushes, a lot of blank and painted canvases, cleaning liquid for brushes and cans with varnish. Another amazing side of Markus, that Connor loves so much. Markus seems incredibly alive to him, and Connor himself would like to be like that. That’s why he is drawn to him for knowledge almost at the instinctive level. And just a big bonus to all this is that spending time with RK200 is surprisingly good.

Now, getting a welcoming embrace from Markus, Connor feels that any excitement is leaving him. Markus is like the whole studio, filled with sunlight. He himself is like a work of art, released from a master brush. He seems to be shining from the inside. Connor feels it when their eyes meet, and the pump in his chest changes speed. First, it aggressively pumps up the thirium and then slows down. The feeling for Connor is not so new, but it is still difficult for him to determine it. There too many similar indicators in it for a lot of different emotions. One Connor knows for sure that fear can not be one of these emotions, because there is no reason to fear Markus.

“I hope that this time you will be here longer than twenty-five minutes.” the voice of the deviant’s leader is surprisingly gentle.

Connor looks at him, meets his gaze and feels a new freesia blossoms on the back of his neck, where the shirt touches the skin.

“I decided that forty minutes would be enough to…” Connor stops when Markus grins and shakes his head.

“Will not that be enough?” Connor asks, confused.

“Not really, but it’s all right, next day we will have another lesson, if you do not mind.” It’s impossible to calculate the full extent of Markus’s emotions, but Connor still tries. “At least that means I’ll spend a little more time with you than planned.”

“You are satisfied, although this means that I’m wasting your time.”

“I’m pleased that it’s you who do it.” Connor feels that another freesia is about to blossom.

“Okay, is there something you would like to play?”

Markus leads to the piano, and RK800 looks at him puzzled. He does not know what he wants to play, he did not even think about it. Connor shakes his head at the question. Now, finding himself so close to the musical instrument, he has no idea what to do with it.

Markus sits down on the edge of the bench and pats the free space on his left, inviting Connor to sit beside him. RK800 hesitates for a second before moving and obediently to sit down. The black and white keys are shown with a soft overflow of light when Markus lifts the lid, runs his fingers along them and gently presses the right foot pedal, slightly reducing the sound.

“We can start with something simple.” he says, without taking his eyes off the keys. “Alessandro Scarlatti is pretty simple to perform. His Spanish folies sounds like it’s hard to play, but it’s not. ”

Connor’s LED flashes, while he loads notes for the play, and Markus gradually passes his fingers through the keys.

“It seems difficult.” RK800 says doubtfully, watching the hands fly over the instrument and create beautiful music sounds.

“It just seems like that.” Markus smiles and softly ends his play, turning to Connor and making an invitation gesture to indicate that it’s his turn now.

“The piano is probably the most difficult instrument for learning, but we do not need that much time to learn how to play it, as people need it. Even if you have never had such skills in your code, I know that you will succeed. Now put your fingers here.”

Markus leads Connor’s right hand a little closer to himself, put his fingers on the keys in such a way that his thumb is on the “do” key, and the little finger on the “sol” key. Connor watches everything attentively, looks at Markus’ dark skin and feels another new feeling: as if everything inside him jumps and freezes, lingers in this suspended state and vibrates. Connor wants to know immediately what this feeling means, but he does not dare to interrupt the lesson and therefore silently watches how Markus puts his left hand on the next octave. The feel of the warm piano keys under his fingers is nice, just like the feel of Markus’ hands on his own, which lead him to the right notes.

“Keep your fingers slightly bent.” Markus says, correcting the position of his hand and pulling back a little, giving Connor complete freedom of action. “Touch the keys with your fingertips, and do not forget about the foot pedals. If you think that the sound is too loud and sharp, gently press the right one, if vice versa, the left one.”

“How do I know when I need to do this?”

“You will understand.” Markus smiles and watches carefully how the sounds from Connor’s fingers slowly and uncertainly come out. And this is truly an indescribable feeling to play something on a musical instrument.

The melody is pouring so perfectly after the second attempt, because the program has memorized the movements. Markus no longer helps, but only looks and smiles, gently wedging into the short lull between the play, turning solo into a duo.

They play one melody after another; begin with a simple anthologies, adagio and allegro, turning to Beethoven’s sonatas and Chopin’s plays, changes them to a minor waltz and “the seasons” of Tchaikovsky.

And Connor, to his own surprise, is completely delighted with this. He attentively looks at the hands of Markus, who move almost in unison with him, and then to him. Markus does not follow the play at all. He seems to give himself completely to music, covering his eyes, falls into it and exudes it, as if not from a piano, but from himself.

Finishing Diabelli’s play, Connor can barely take his eyes off Markus, again feeling how the pump in his chest accelerated work, and the fans in the cooling system began to cool the heated biocomponents.

Connor looks away, not knowing what to do, because the pump is still rumbling in his chest, and Markus looks straight into his eyes.

“This is very strange.” the voice of RK200 slightly breaks the silence. “Why did not I notice this before?”

“What are you talking about?” Connor’s head throws up inquiringly: Did Markus notice freesia behind the collar of his shirt? Or petals showered on his knees?

“You have flowers in your hair.” RK200 says and carefully gathers the flowers from the dark curls with his fingers.

Connor looks at him intently, inspects every feature of his face and feels a sweet floral smell. The touches are not long, but unexpectedly pleasant, and Connor wants to extend them.

Markus puts into his outstretched palm a dozen small flowers of lilac of beautiful purple color, quite unlike the already familiar white-cream shade of freesia.

Connor looks at the plant with surprise. The flowers scattered across his palm are something new, and he looks up at Markus to make sure it’s not his attempts to make fun of him. No. RK200 looks slightly puzzled, but relaxed, pleased with the excellent time spent.

Connor looks again at the flowers.

_**Lilac. Botanical name is Syringa.**_

__

_**The genus of 12 currently recognized species of flowering woody plants in the olive family, native to woodland and scrub from southeastern Europe to eastern Asia, and widely and commonly cultivated in temperate areas elsewhere.** _

_**In the language of flowers, purple lilacs symbolize the first emotions of love.** _

Lilacs, not freesia. Although Connor also feels the freesia flowers on the back of his neck, he feels how it spreads the petals and fills the room with a pleasant smell of flowering.

Funnel-shaped flowers of lilac looks so small on his palm, and Connor takes and put them in a pocket to other petals. Markus smiles and reminds that the detective has exceeded his limit of staying here for fifteen minutes.

Connor only frowns at this, he did not expect from himself that he will interrupt the internal countdown, but says nothing, only restrains his lips in a smile.

“If you want, you can stay longer.” Markus says the familiar phrase and knows that Connor will refuse, but he never stops. He reminds him over and over again that Connor is a welcome guest here, and that all the time he spends here is not enough.

“Maybe next time,” Connor says, rising from behind the piano and notices how two more lilac flowers fall to the floor. “Now…”

“Now you need to make a report for the police department and go for a walk with Sumo, I know.” Markus accompanies him to the gates, praises for the excellent play and does not let go of conversations for another seven minutes, which Connor does not seem to notice. Perhaps he wants to play a couple more plays, even spend a couple of hours talking about the global, and even feel how Markus’ fingers take flowers from his black hair.

But Connor’s pocket is so full of petals of freesia and lilacs, and the deviant leader looks with hope for an early meeting, so there’s nothing left to do but say goodbye and leave.

Conning through his fingers with purple lilacs flowers, Connor looks at his feet.

_Lilac. The first excitement of love._


	3. Snowdrop

[ ](https://ibb.co/hZAUMK)

The darkness in the room is dense. Connor stands in front of the mirror, looks at his reflection and frowns. The LED on his right temple is feverishly glowing blue, just about bursting into an alarming yellow.

Connor looks at his reflection, and does not want to look at himself. Through his hair shows a small sprig of lilacs with four-leafed petals. It slips through the dark curls near the left ear. Connor does not take his eyes off the twig when he unties the tie and pulls it off. He also pulls down the jacket of the uniform, and the petals fall on the floor, not held by anything except the collar of the shirt.

Now Connor hesitates and about a few seconds does not dare to do something. An irrational fear overwhelms him, and he thinks that if he removes his shirt, he will see not soft and fragile flowers, but rotted algae, corroding his body with acid and soaked in his thirium.

He unbuttons his shirt with his never trembling fingers. His synthetic skin is smooth, without damage and without traces of blue blood on it. Only on the back of his neck freesia flowers grow. Small flowers burst through his synthetic skin directly from his body, and Connor pulls his hand toward them, wanting to tear them from himself, because that’s wrong. Flowers should not grow out of his body.

Getting rid of the lilac branch is more difficult. Its stem is still weak, but persists longer than brittle freesia stems. Drops of a thirium dribble from a broken branch, and the lilac in his hands seems so vulnerable that the first rush whispers to Connor not throw it into the box to the rest of the flowers. He twists a twig in his hands for about a minute and puts it on the table.

Flowers on his body no longer appear; he carefully checks for the presence of flowers and only then pulls his uniform back. The fabric smells of a sweet scent of flowers and reminds him that something is wrong, because flowers should not grow in his body. He conducts one system diagnostics after another; tries to figure out which virus got into the program, but all of his systems are in order.

***

Flower aroma pursues on the heels; sweet, luscious and fresh. Aroma of blossoming flowers, that is still very young and so beautiful. Connor shakes white freesias from the back of his neck, pulls out a lilac twig from his hair, and appears in the DPD in a familiar form. It seems that everything is not so bad; plants no longer bother him on this day.

And it would be better if, a few hours before the end of the shift Captain Fowler did not stop him in the corridor. Connor went to the archive, to load the materials of yesterday’s case, when he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. The man did not look negatively tuned, the level of his stress was low, and therefore Connor suggested that the topic of the conversation would be in a positive light.

Fowler looks intently at Connor’s face, as if trying to find something in him. He does not look worried, but the light glint of anxiety is barely noticeable. If Connor had not been created as detective, if he had not had so many programs, he probably would not have noticed this glimpse of feeling on the man’s face.

“Captain?” Connor asks in an even voice, and Fowler looks at him so tense, from what all his biocomponents is like under pressure. Anxiety and tension, rather unpleasant feelings, and Connor would prefer not to feel those emotions at all.

He immediately thinks that he could make a mistake in the report, incorrectly fill out the report or miss out on some important case in the database. He thinks about work, but Fowler asks him about his health. He looks with a long, attentive look at RK800, as if he were scanning him like a real policeman, who saw not just the shooting of local gangs of drug dealers, but real hell, where he was dying more than once, where he lost his colleagues. Fowler looks as if he is drilling holes in him, but Connor’s attentive eye catches something else, something that he himself has only recently begun to experience.

“Are you all right, Connor?” Jeffrey repeats the question after a minute of silence and takes a small step forward.

“Yes, of course,” Connor replies with a slight smile, not particularly sincere. It is unintentional, created to mitigate tension in conversation, added to Connor’s program of negotiations as one of the most important components of successfully completed missions. It also works with Fowler; he relaxes in the shoulders and wrinkles between his eyebrows, smoothes.

“I ran the diagnostics of the systems yesterday, and no violations were found,” the android says in a soothing tone and feels something tickling on the wrist of his right hand. The discomfort is hardly perceptible, covered by the sleeve of the jacket and a low level of sensitivity sensors.

The captain of the DPD looks at him sharply, sighs and nods. He seems to have expected such an answer, but he does not look pleased with what he received, and Connor wants to understand why.

Connor does not consider the small and fragile flowers that grow out of his body as a problem. They do not harm his biocomponents, and their weak stems and roots do not interfere with the work of the pump in his chest. Undoubtedly, the flowers should not be in his body, and should not bloom on his synthetic skin, but no matter how much he tore them up and tried to etch them out of the system, they continued to appear. Can this be considered as the reason for Fowler’s question? Maybe he saw a lilac in Connor’s hair, which should not be. Maybe the reason is different, but while Connor is unable to determine what else could cause the captain to ask this question.

“Just take it easy out there, all right? Don’t overstrain yourself,” Jeffrey says, hiding his hands in the pockets of his pants. “Android or not, you’re one of those for whom I’m responsible.”

He leaves, leaving RK800 alone. Perhaps the captain is more perceptive than Connor could have imagined, but this sudden dialogue was not just pleasantly surprised, but also made Connor feel a familiar emotion - acceptance.

It’s nice, and Connor wants to immediately go to Hank and share this feeling with him, but He can not even make a step when He get a signal about an incoming call from Markus. The LED on the temple flashes yellow one short time, and Connor takes the call, wondering immediately if everything is all right in New Jericho.

“As far as I know, everything is more than good.” Markus laughs lightly.

“Oh, good.”

An awkward silence hangs over them with a soft canopy, and Connor waits what else Markus will say, because he did not contact him for silence. And while he waits for an answer, he feels, as if something barely perceptible flutters inside, tickles inside of the chest wall, like the butterfly’s wings, like petals of flowers.

It’s nice to hear Markus, even if he is silent, even if he is waiting for Connor to say something. And the tickling sensation on Connor’s wrist becomes a little more pronounced when RK200 asks him a question.

“I’m not distracting you from disclosing an important case?”

“Only from load the report of robbery in the supermarket to the archive files.”

“I hope this is not some kind of secret information, because of the disclosure of which you will have problems?”

Connor runs his fingers along the sensor, puts his hand on it and loads the report into the system, while listening to Markus and responding to him with such ease, as if there was no awkward silence between them a minute ago.

“Did you want something, Markus?”

“Yes, actually. I wanted to say that our lesson will have to be postponed the next day,” RK200’s voice sounds guilty. “I have an appointment with a senator, but you can use a musical instrument if you want to practice or play something.”

A small disappointment flowing through his artificial veins along with the thirium, but Connor only agrees dryly. Disappointment for him is not clear, because Markus did not cancel their meeting. Connor thinks for a long time that feelings are mostly irrational and incomprehensible, completely illogical. Misunderstanding how people deal with them, how they come to terms with the fact that sometimes their emotions are causeless, like his disappointment.

“Simon and Josh insisted on creating something like a holiday in New Jericho. This month was quite hard for all of us, and it seems right to relax and forget about what we experienced. ”

Connor understands; ever since they achieved recognition and approval of their rights, they did not have the opportunity to experience their complete freedom. They set up bridges of communication with the government, they were engaged in the arrangement of the New Jericho, and they helped the wounded. They even negotiated with Cyberlife.

So, it seems right, and Connor nods, agreeing with this, but Markus does not see it and keeps talking.

“It would be nice if you came too, of course, only if this does not interfere with your work, and if Hank is okay with that. This is not necessary, but I would be very happy to see you there, you have done a lot for our people and you must be there.”

Here it is. It is a pleasant sensation that spreads the warmth all over the body. Cacophony of emotions, which was interrupts by tickling sensation on the wrist. Connor frowns and pulls up his sleeve. Three tiny snowdrops, wrinkled by a sleeve, stretch along his artificial veins. Connor looks at them, frowns and knows that his stress level has now risen by two percent. A little to start worrying, but the flowers on his wrist involuntarily bother him.

He looks at them and sees nothing but ordinary flowers.

**_Galanthus, or Snowdrop is a small genus of about 20 species of bulbous perennial herbaceous plants in the family Amaryllidaceae._**

**_The plants have two linear leaves and a single small white drooping bell shaped flower with six petal-like tepals in two circles. The smaller inner petals have green markings._ **

**_In the language of flowers they symbolize hope, tenderness and consolation._ **

Connor tears off weak stems and brings the flower a little closer to his face, looking at his white petals. The snowdrop is something like freesia that grows on the back side of his neck, but this flower is thinner and more defenseless, as if it consists of soft cotton snowballs.

“Connor?”

“Yes. Yes, I will come.”

Markus huffs approvingly, and Connor seems to hear a smile in this sound, and it distracts him from the snowdrops. It distracts him until the moment when Markus says goodbye and they are break off the connection, and Connor has nothing but flowers that break through his synthetic skin. He thinks about telling Hank about this. He can know something, he can tell how to deal with it, because getting rid of flowers by tearing them from his skin is hardly a good way, and from a regular cleaning of the system there is no sense at all, because even a system check does not give anything, saying to him, that everything is in order in his body.

That’s why Connor thinks it’s a good idea to turn to Hank for a help. But still, for some reason, he lingers, looking curiously at the new flower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all very much for reading this story! It would mean the world to me if you told me whether you like what you read or if I should take some other course.  
> Nevertheless, I am very grateful to you for being here!


	4. Gardenia

[ ](https://ibb.co/fzJrkp)

It's like a different world. Connor feels a bit more alive here than anywhere else. As if the atmosphere here is different. It's like that you live here not by codes and programs, but by something ephemeral, something that rings in your chest with a strained string. 

Connor watches Markus's fingers, quickly fingering piano keys and causing a cheerful melody. He is waiting to join in and play a duet with him.

They have been playing for eleven and a half minutes, changing the octaves and playing plays that they have not yet been tried. Connor likes how Markus plays Scherzo's play. He flips his right hand from the second octave to the bass, and it looks so beautiful and so breathtaking.

When Markus completes the play and slightly moves away from the instrument, the studio plunges into a pleasant post-musical silence, electrified by the vibration of inspiration. This feeling is also new for Connor. He does not know what inspiration is, but it looks like it; a flow of energy that fills all his programs, which draws his fingers back to the piano.

"Try to play something of your own," Markus says and nods at the keys. "Close your eyes and imagine the music that it seems to you."

"It's a set of notes and chords, I can not..."

"You can," Markus smiles and takes Connor's hand over the keys to make his fingers feel a smooth surface. "Try not to analyze it. You do not need to tear out every chord; you need to raft them, to collect them in yourself. Close your eyes."

RK800 looks confused, but still follows the instructions. Markus promised to teach him music, and Connor knows that this is exactly what he will do, so it's easy to trust him. He closes his eyes and the efficiency of his optical module is reduced by 40 percent, and Connor is waiting for instructions on what to do next. But Markus does not say anything more, immersing Connor into this dense silence that drowns out his sound processor.

The hand of the leader of the deviants gently touches Connor's right wrist, lies over the back of his hand and with his fingers slightly presses on his fingers, secretly urging him to play. But Connor does not know what to play; he seemed to be in pitch darkness. He wants to tell Markus that his efforts are in vain, but he can not even put the words together, when he hears in his ear Markus' whisper:

"Feel the music. Gather it all in your fingers and let it out into the melody," Markus's hand on his own warm and soft, and his whisper almost hot to the touch, although it's impossible. "You already know how it should sound."

Markus says it to him, and Connor feels the snowdrops bloom on his right wrist. Markus touches his hand with his fingers, and freesia gently rubs against the collar of his shirt. Markus is close, and the lilac in his hair fills the studio with its fragrance. And Connor is suddenly so embarrassed that RK200 finds out that there are flowers in his body, that there is an unknown error in his systems.

Connor presses the piano keys with his fingers. The sound seems frightened and sharp, not light and sunny. The left hand moves an octave lower, the trembling melody intertwines itself with a sonorous and sudden acceptance, and Connor does not know what this melody means to him. He does not like the way it sounds.

"Marcus, I'm sorry to interrupt, but we need your help. It does not take a lot of time." Josh's voice interrupts an uncertain melody.

RK200 nods and stands up from behind the bench cheerfully, turning to Connor and easily patting him on the shoulder.

"Try without me, collect all your feelings and just throw them into the music."

Then he leaves, and the studio again plunges into silence. Connor looks at the keys of the piano and reaches into his pocket for a coin. _Collect all his feelings_. It sounds simple, but it's really different in fact, because Connor himself is not sure what exactly he feels. There are so many sensations, such diverse emotions that it is impossible to catch on to.

The coin rolls over his knuckles, calibrates the movement to the ideal and as if suppresses the flow of thoughts. He wants to play; he wants to feel a little more alive, a little less machine.

Connor again covers his eyes and returns the fingers back to the keys. The melody that he hears is sad. Is he sad? No. Connor does not feel sad.

Connor thinks about the flowers growing out of his body, and the melody, which differs from his fingers with an uncertain rhythm, takes on a softer form. His right hand takes an octave farther, the fingers play a semitone higher. The melody does not become more fun, it something similar to sadness, anxiety and anguish, the causes of which Connor can not understand.

He plays, covering his eyes and finding in himself these strings, for which he need to yank. Snow-white snowdrop on his wrist whines in a melody with a gentle note "mi", and the fragrant lilac in his hair slides into a long "la". And the melody does not come out quickly, but squeezed, painted in a dark blue color. It seems to be bitter on the tongue with the taste of paint, until the dark blue dilutes an easy smear of sky-blue color. It's the quick play with which a sad melody melted into two octaves higher, executed by someone else's hand.

Connor's eyes open sharply. He looks at Markus's hands in surprise, until leader of deviants having brought out the last note and looks at Connor with a smile.

"Excuse me, will you continue?" he asks and Connor nods, returning to the play.

This time the melody sounds more confident, multi-faceted, and RK800 presses on the keys without a doubt. He plays the flowers on his body in a melody, he turns his doubts to low notes and he really wants Markus to weave his sky-blue into the palette of Connor's dark blue again. He again wants to play a duet, because with Markus the melody sounds perfect, it sounds full.

_Will you play with me?_

Connor does not utter aloud, transmits over internal communications, and Markus sees a slight smile without even turning to him.

**_You do not mind? It's your melody, after all._ **

_I like to play with you; the music turns out so colorful._

Connor notices Markus' heterochromic eyes on himself. Markus is able to touch something inside with his voice, with his thoughts and convictions, without a doubt. But even better, he can do it only with a look. In his eyes, the raging sea of emotions and although some for Connor is still difficult to read, but contentment and joy he discerns immediately.

Markus plays the same melody, only in a different tonality and speed. It sounds a brisk stream, rushes through the rocks past Connor’s flowers, spilling moisture on them and saving them from withering.

They both are so keenly engaged that they collide with their hands, breaking away from the sound and again plunging into a buzzing silence. This causes laughter in both of them, and Markus apologizes for getting carried away and interrupting their play. Connor feels the flower blooming on his collarbone. Only now, it does not seem to bother him.

 

Afterwards, when Connor goes to Hank's house, he will see a small flower with white petals, which bloomed on his collarbone. He looks at it for about a minute.

 

****

**Gardenia jasminoides.**

****

**Gardenia is a genus of flowering plants in the coffee family, Rubiaceae, native to the tropical and subtropical regions of Africa, Asia, Madagascar and Pacific Islands.**

****

**It signifies a secret love or an untold love.**

 

Perhaps this is the last thing that disrupts and makes Connor nervous. Freesia, lilacs, snowdrops, and now gardenia on his collarbone. There are still not so many flowers; there are days when they do not bloom at all, but the fact that they do not stop appearing starts to bother Connor.

* * *

 

This happens two days after the appearance of gardenias on his body; Connor in the company of the lieutenant passes along the corridors of the department, when a pair of white petals falls to the floor. Hank looks at them and rubs his forehead slightly tired.

"Connor," his voice sounds a little wary, but as if he's about to start chiding. "I really tried not to think about it, but, damn, my whole house already smells of these flowers. What's happening? You've been hacked, and now you are robbing flower shops?"

Connor stops, turns to Hank and looks at him confused.

"With my programs everything is all right, they have not been subjected to any..."

"That was not the question," the man says with a little sigh, and nods at the fallen petals. "Explain this to me."

Hank looks at him intently, and Connor has nothing to say. He does not know the reason for the appearance of flowers, and he does not know how to get rid of them.

"I do not know what to say, Hank," RK800 does not sound sad or confused, rather the tone of his voice sounds like a misunderstanding. "Perhaps there is some failure in my systems, because these flowers grow from my body."

Connor shows Hank the snowdrops on his wrist and steps closer. The lieutenant looks at the flowers carefully, touches the stems and looks up at Connor.

"How do you feel himself?" the expression on his face changes slightly, acquires a tinge of worry. "Are you not suffocates? Do you breathe freely?"

"Androids do not need oxygen, Hank. But everything is good, all my system drivers are normal. Do you know anything about these flowers?"

"For all the time that I worked here, I had to see a lot of shit. And there were such things, with flowers. I would not say that such a thing is not uncommon, I've only seen two cases, but I'm sure there's much more going on through the medical sphere of similar examples." Hank leads Connor back to their table and nods to take the sit. "As my old friend and our forensic expert Henry Stiges explained to me, this is a disease. Flower disease that kills a person from within. It supposedly appears because of unrequited love, but, as for me, these are only fairy tales. Disease is a disease; the reasons for its occurrence are, of course, important, but not as much as options for its treatment. Both cases, on which I was, where this disease appeared, had a lethal outcome. The sight is disgusting, I tell you."

"Do you think that I can have a similar illness?"

Hank is silent. He looks at his feet and feels heavy on his shoulders. Connor looks at him with his curious, innocent look, and Hank really does not want to be right.

"The symptoms are different," he finally breathes. "As the autopsy showed then; flowers grow in the lungs, fill them and choke the victim. In the second case, they even broke through the lung with their spines, continuing to grow in the interior. They pierced the heart with their stems and stopped it. But you…"

"I do not breathe, and so I do not choke on them," Connor says, and frowns a little, looking at the snowdrops, so weak, so fragile, and so harmless.

"Are you all right, kid? They do not create any discomfort?"

"No," Connor shakes his head. "They just sprout through the skin. Nothing more".

"I will contact Henry. I doubt that this often happens with androids, but maybe he will be able to say something. Meanwhile, we have an equally important question: who?"

"Who?"  Connor asks a little confused.

"Who is the cause of these fucking flowers?"

Connor is silent, and only after a few minutes, when Hank gently repeats his question, clarifying that he asks who Connor unrequitedly in love with, he fidgets in his chair.

 _In love?_ Connor does not know this feeling. He can easily give a dry mechanical definition of love, but he does not know how to answer Hank's question without hesitating. Is he in love? If the lieutenant says so, then there can be no doubt. The disease is better than any understanding of the feelings speaks about it. But if he is in love, then in whom?

Connor analyzes his systems, trying to find the answer, but finds nothing. There is not only a hint of who can be the cause, but there is no reason either.

"Maybe you were mistaken, Lieutenant." Connor is lost for a moment, even returns to call Hank in rank. "At the moment I do not feel this kind of attachment. There is no one in whom I would be in love."

Connor had not yet felt this wave of feelings of love. Not that he did not want to, new emotions are always interesting, but now this meek and raging feeling seems to not reach to him.

"Really?" Hank frowns and poking a snowdrop on android's wrist with his finger. "These guys say that everything is completely different."

Connor thinks about it for the rest of the day; about flowers and diseases, about love and death. He also thinks that maybe he really is in love, just the systems do not send him signals and harbor this feeling away from him, cherish it and take care of it, growing it together with flowers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter as a roller coaster, but I love it anyway. and yes, I hope that you will like it too, because we are finally starting to lightly touch the plot!
> 
> I just want to say that I love you all and all of your comments make me happier!


	5. Lavender and Heather

[ ](https://ibb.co/mkCNVz)

It's not that the New Jericho is noisy today, because the androids are more reserved when it comes to celebrations. Alcohol does not overshadow their mind and does not cross the lines that you should not overstep. Alcohol in principle has no place to be here, because there is no need for it. The noise of the holiday can be seen in the shimmering bright lamps over the main square, in relaxed smiles on the faces and in lightness with which the pump rumbles in the chest. Pleasant tranquility in a room where music plays songs of the distant past and the light of the lamps does not reach the far corners, leaving them mysteriously dark.

Connor sits at one of the tables and does not regret a single minute that he came. Yes, he sits alone, but it does not matter, because there are so many androids in the room. They communicate with each other; touch each other's palms with such simplicity, conveying their emotions, sharing their impressions. Connor does not feel alone by simply watching them.

On the table next to his hand is a lilac branch, which he tore off before coming here. The petals of the flower are still blazing with life, still pulsing as if they continue to grow behind Connor's left ear. Now RK800 does not think about flowers. He does not even look at the lilacs, watching AF200 instead. She dances in the arms of another android, spinning to music and her hair, swinging, flying through the air, like the hem of her dress. They dance a waltz, and they are almost perfect. Connor sees the mistakes and does not understand why they do them, when they can flawlessly play a whole ballroom dance without a single mistake. He looks at them and thinks how he played with Markus on the piano, making the same mistakes.

Looking away from AF200, Connor feels a slight disappointment. The music lessons with Markus are over, and now he is able to create his own symphonies, but this does not seem what he wanted. Now he is burned by an absurd desire to ask Markus to teach him something else.

"I did not think I'd see you here," Markus' voice can not be mistaken for anyone else. "I was hoping you'd come to me first."

The leader of the deviants causes a smile on his lips involuntary, and Connor only tells him that he did not want to distract him from important things. Markus nods understandingly and apologizes suddenly so fervently that he will again have to leave him for a while. He is called on a mental connection and can not refuse, not today.

"I'm very glad you could come." Markus smiles gently, puts his hands on Connor's shoulders and adds: "I need to go, but I'll be back. So do not go away, until I get back, okay?"

Connor wants to say that he was not going to go anywhere, but only nods, looking at how Markus leaves. His thoughts are immersed in the warmth and softness of this evening, in the quiet sounds of the saxophone, in the light smell of lilac that his sensors feel.

First love. Does it look like a lilac? Is it as fragrant and magnificent as a lilac, with the same small inflorescences of feelings? Connor does not know, he is not in love, but he thinks that it can look like lilacs flowers.

"Hi, can I sit here?"

Simon leans slightly and nods at the vacant chair, and Connor thinks that there is too much Markus' around him. Without a doubt, Simon is here at the request of the leader of deviants, and it even amuses. Connor nods, inviting to sit down.

"It's good to see you here," Simon says. "Without your help in the revolution, this is unlikely to be possible."

He speaks and looks at the communicating androids, which makes RK800 feel awkward. He does not feel the responsibility that is awarded to him. He does not feel that he has really done something important. In fact, it seems to him that he fulfilled just one more task.

"Markus appreciates this very much," Simon runs his fingers through the lilac twig and says in a voice that pleasant to ear. "He does not want you to feel like an outcast here."

"So he asked you to join me?" Connor is not reproving. He still uses the negotiator protocol functions to adapt and at times it helps more than Connor could have imagined.

"I'd go myself," Simon laughs, and even if there was tension between them, it would have gone away now. "It's just that Markus does not want you to leave before he comes back."

"I was not going to leave yet," in response to this Simon only shrugs his shoulders and turns to the side where AF200 is still spinning in the dance. On his face, Connor notices such vivid emotions that he can not help but ask.

"How do you do it? Feel? How do you manage to behave so easily? Everyone seems to be so easy to cope with this."

Simon looks up in surprise and glances at the lilac twig, picking up the words. Connor wants to know everything, wants everything to be given to him with the same ease. But his cracked program still throws out error messages when he feels a new emotion, and it stops him. Connor understands why it easier for others, because they did not hunt deviants. They were not the CyberLife's Cerberus.

"I'm not sure I can explain it to you," Simon finally says. "Everyone adapts in different ways. Sometimes there is no time for this, sometimes there are too many feelings and it seems that they can not be coped with. What is surprising, you get used to bad feelings faster. With the pleasant ones is different. It's harder to feel them, you do not know whether to trust or not."

"Pleasant feelings, such as safety and joy? Gratitude and kindness?" 

Connor is not surprised when he sees a nod. Everyone who took part in the revolution was faced with negative emotions. They let them feel alive, gave an excuse to go forward. And he is not surprised that they have problems with pleasant, positive feelings. They did not collide with them so collectively, they are not sure that the consequences will not be a reflection of sad emotions.

"Were you in love?" Connor asks, because he can, and Simon looks at him in surprise, because he did not expect such a question. Expecting him from Connor suddenly does not fit into Simon's vision, and he is silent. He has the answer; the answer is quick and concise, which he pronounces with a slight shaking of his head.

"No. I wasn't. Are you in love, Connor?"

Simon asks the question and feels how the atmosphere is changing. Connor looks for an answer in himself and Simon is not sure that he will find it. Connor does not look in love, although Simon himself knows about this feeling only from the database. Connor is like a kitten entangled in woolen threads, which can not be pulled out without help from an outsider, and now Simon understands why Markus is so attentive to RK800. Connor as if endlessly breaks the wall in him, destroys program codes and becomes a deviant again and again. Connor seemed to be lost in this world. And for some reason, Simon wants him to say that 'yes, I'm in love’ so that he has something that rescuing him and unraveling the bundles of threads.

"I do not know," the answer does not satisfy Simon. "Hank says I could be, but I do not feel anything like it. I do not know how these feelings should be felt. The algorithm is clear to me, but I still did not feel anything like it."

"Maybe you just did not notice?" Simon does not know who Connor might be in love with, he really does not really care, but he can not stop asking questions. "Attachment and love can often be confused, they are almost identical and related to each other. It can be someone who you care about."

"Could it be Hank?"

There is silence between both of them, and if Connor looks seriously, thinks about it, Simon looks at him with amusement. He does not dismiss this idea. Maybe it's Hank, maybe it’s someone else, only Connor knows.

"You can clarify everything from him. The lieutenant is clearly familiar with this feeling personally and will be able to help."

"The last time he did not help," Connor's annoyed sigh sounds natural, and Simon smiles a little.

He would like to help RK800 and give good advice, but Simon does not have all the answers. Almost no one has them.

"You still need to talk to him, he has more experience." 

Simon shrugs and puts aside a sprig of lilac. Connor nods at the words, understanding, but still not sure that Hank will be able to say something new about this. Perhaps, only if he himself is the reason why flowers grow. But Connor is not in love with anyone, he is sure of that by 91 percent. Something obviously went wrong.

Connor thinks that this feeling can be simply buried deep in him, that even tests and diagnostics do not reach it. And to some extent it may be true that Hank is one to blame for everything. After all, Hank is important to him, he quite fits the category of love. He looks at Simon, as if he revealed to him the secret of the universe. Connor enthusiastically rises to his feet and declares:

"I need to talk to Hank."

"You want to leave now? But..." Simon holds Connor's wrist, but immediately let’s go, when he sees an astonished look at himself. "We thought you would stay longer."

Connor understands: _Markus_. Markus asked him not to leave until he came back. He asked him to wait. He asked Simon to join him, so that Connor would not be bored. And going away would just be impolite, but talking to Hank and getting rid of flowers now seems more important.

"Apologize to Markus for me, please."

"Apologize for what?" 

The leader of the deviants looks with a slight smile, pleased that, finally, freed from business and spends the rest of the holiday in a pleasant company of Simon and Connor.

"Connor needs to go and he apologizes to you for leaving so early." Simon slaps RK800 on the back and smiles encouragingly, and the contented expression on Markus's face falls off slightly.

Markus looks a bit upset and asks if Connor can stay for at least twenty minutes. Connor can. He can stay here even for the whole night, but gardenias on his collarbone are showered with petals because of close contact with the shirt, and the lilacs behind the left ear are filled with a sweet smell by the sensors. He can not stay here longer. But twenty minutes does not seem so long, especially when Markus looks at him with hope with his mismatched eyes.

 

They talk about success in the negotiations with the government: President Warren approved the hiring of androids in construction organizations, and together with Markus developed a profile of job requirements and an optimal salary. It was a small victory, and Connor rejoiced, almost without feeling the discomfort of the growing freesias behind him.

Leaving, he does not feel such regret as he felt twenty minutes earlier, looking into Markus's eyes and realizing that he did not really want to leave. And now it's easier, and the leader of the deviants walks close to him, escorting to the gate and thanks to the fact that Connor still decided to come.

They stand for about a minute, saying goodbye, and Connor sees that Markus wants to say something. He looks with such a look that shifts all the biocomponents inside Connor and this feeling is like a thrill, a new one, which until now has not been experienced. But Markus does not say anything. He puts his hand on Connor's shoulder and weakly squeezes. The shadow of a smile on his lips signals that Connor is always welcome here, and a slightly crumpled farewell makes it clear that maybe it was worthwhile to stay for another ten minutes.

 

Leaving the New Jericho, Connor feels like flowers grows on both his hands. At the elbow bend, where the synthetic skin is slightly thinner and tenderer than in other places, two flowers bloom. This never causes discomfort, because the androids do not feel physical pain, only serious damage to biocomponents and selectors can cause agony, similar to the pain experienced by people. Therefore, every new flower that sprouts through its skin is hardly palpable at all; perhaps, if it were not for the sensors giving the signals, he would not pay attention.

Now, sitting in an unmanned taxi, Connor pulls off his jacket and unbuttons buttons on the cuffs of his shirt. This is more curiosity to find out what a new plant is spreading its petals on his skin. Will it be as fragile as the snowdrops and gardenias, or riotous and full of life like lilacs? Symbolism for Connor is also interesting: it's like little tips that he collects.

He looks at the new flowers with mild sadness, while rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. On his left hand is lavender, and on his right hand is heather. Both flowers are so similar to each other, only the lavender color is more violet, and the heather is pink.

Connor tears off their fragile stems and twists them in the fingers, reading the characteristics.

 

**__**

**_Lavandula or Lavender is a genus of 47 known species of flowering plants in the mint family, Lamiaceae. It is native to the Old World and is found from Cape Verde and the Canary Islands, Europe across to northern and eastern Africa, the Mediterranean, southwest Asia to southeast India. The most widely cultivated species, Lavandula angustifolia, is often referred to as lavender._ **

**__**

**_It symbolizes loneliness and admiration._ **

****

**__**

**_Calluna vulgaris or Common Heather is the sole species in the genus Calluna in the flowering plant family Ericaceae. It is a low-growing perennial shrub that is found widely in Europe and Asia Minor on acidic soils in open sunny situations and in moderate shade. It is the dominant plant in most heathland and moorland in Europe, and in some bog vegetation and acidic pine and oak woodland._ **

**__**

**_It symbolizes loneliness._ **

**__**

****

Connor presses the flowers to his lips and covers his eyes. Maybe these will be the last ones, maybe he will solve everything with Hank, and they will stop growing.


	6. White Poppy

[ ](https://ibb.co/iTxFQ9)

The tension in the room is quite difficult to describe. Maybe it's because of the expression on Hank's face when he looks at Connor. Maybe it's because of his usual curses. Maybe Connor himself is to blame.

RK800 obediently waits for an answer, and Hank looks at him severely. The level of his stress exceeds 29 percent, and Connor does not think it is necessary to raise it. It is quite optimal for this kind of conversation. But there's no conversation: they just look at each other, each with their own emotions, with their thoughts. And after two and a half minutes Connor accepts the fact that, he should have started the conversation differently. However, all the options for the development of this dialogue end in the same way: here, in this tense silence.

"Hank..." RK800 says, but Anderson's sharp tone interrupts him.

"What the hell, Connor?"

The android scowls, not sure if he needs to answer this question. Whether it was asked in order to get an answer or to express his expression? But Connor still repeats his dry mechanical suggestion. He tries to make it as clear as possible to Hank, repeating what he said before.

"I've been thinking about the words you said for a long time and I believe that the one whom I..."

"Slow down right here," Hank waved his hand and leaned back against the couch.

He remains silent for a long time, either picking up words, or simply hiding from this conversation. Connor understands this line of his conduct, there is in the protocol of the negotiator a subsection of dialogue with irritated-impulsive people. Of course, this time he prefers not to use the protocol and wait until Hank speaks himself. When the lieutenant, who was distracted from viewing the Friday match in such an unceremonious way, and even having started a conversation on such an absurd topic, finally calms down and sighs heavily, Connor realizes that now he is ready for a conversation.

"What you think, and what it really is is different things, you're a plastic idiot!" Hank says.

"But if you compare all the data, then that attachment, which..."

"Attachment can be different, Connor," he interrupts in the same rough way, but with such an indulgent fatigue in his voice that RK800 falters. "And this one is not the one we talked about. Believe me. You're not in love with me. Especially, since you convinced me that you are in principle in no one in love." 

Hank looks up at the frowning Connor. The android seems to be completely confused, and can not get out of this trap. And Hank pulls his hand to him and shrugs his shoulder, until Connor himself nods to him.

"That's right."

"Then how did you even come to the fact that I can be the one... Although, I do not even want to know."

Connor is lost again. He lowers his head and looks at his hand. Snowdrops glow with life, open tender petals and stretch to his fingers when Connor touches the flowers. Sensors catch the softness and fragility of the plant. Snowdrops grow and rejoice every second of their existence, they cling to Connor's fingers and are enjoy involuntary caresses, they almost ring with a lingering melody of love, while RK800 strokes them. They are alive, as he is alive. Like the love that gave birth to them, it is also alive.

"So, we sorted it out. Now tell me, are you sure that you are not unrequitedly in love with anyone?" 

"My confidence was 92 percent, until I mistakenly came to the conclusion that I could be in love with you," Connor looks at the man.

"And what is the degree of your confidence now?"

"89 percent," he shrugs and rises from the couch, finally deciding to leave Andersen alone, but braking at the door and asking the last question. "Hank, if I really do not love anyone, but flowers continue to grow, it's not normal, is it?"

"Yes, it's not normal," the lieutenant nods and rubs his forehead wearily. "Did you talk about this with Markus or with someone in Jericho? Maybe they had experienced something similar."

In response, Connor shakes his head. At that time, he did not consider it necessary, although, he needed to ask Simon about this.

"Wait, you left your robo-party because of this stupid idea?"

In Connor's eloquent silence, Hank only waves his hand and no longer pays attention to android. Hank says that the act was reckless, and Connor is agreeing with him, because he could spend more time in New Jericho. 

Of course, Connor could come back, and he would be welcomed, but instead he only enters his room, pulls off his tie and descends straight to the floor by the bed. He feels the flowers growing on his body, how the petals spread, how they seem to glance out from under the clothes even briefly. And unbuttoning his shirt, Connor catches the crumbling gardenia, whose flowers are rubbed against the fabric, but they were still snow-white beautiful. Connor looks at the damaged gardenia and feels like another sprout is already living, already making its way through his skin. Secret love. Is his love so secret that he does not notice it? Is it buried somewhere so deep that it is impossible to reach and understand it? 89 percent can not be a mistake, right?

The feeling he feels is a confusion and a slight smear of sadness. How do people generally understand that they are in love with someone? They do not receive any code, and the programs do not produce errors. How can he understand this? Simon said that Connor would understand when this would happen, but it had already happened, and he did not understand. And, maybe, there is nothing to understand and everything is normal with his perception, maybe he really does not in love, and flowers are only one big malfunction in his system. 

A quiet clatter of claws on the parquet makes an easy smile stretch out on his lips; Sumo fits the soft tread of his big paws, and Connor meets him with an open arms and a free place next to him.

"Hi."

Connor's fingers are tangled in soft fur and the sensors immediately tell him that it is oily to touch. He makes a note to bathe the dog soon. He strokes Sumo slowly until the wet nose pokes him by the ear, sniffs and sneezes, wrinkling his nose. Most likely, the pollen from the flowers irritates the dog, and Connor suddenly is afraid that because of this Sumo will go away, leaving him alone.

 "Sorry, I know that the smell is too harsh for you, but I can not help it."

St. Bernard looks at him with an understanding look, and Connor pauses for a minute before moving closer to the dog and embracing him, bury his nose in his fur. It is difficult to describe these feelings and this impulse. He does not understand it, but to sit like that, feeling the warmth of a living being, hearing his quick heartbeat, as if he makes Connor himself livelier.

Sumo quietly whimpers over his ear, but does not move, he patiently waits for him to be released so that he can already lie down on Connor's knees and doze off, and Connor himself is not sure that he can unhook his hands now. It is catastrophically necessary to hold on to someone, because suddenly it so painfully pulls everything inside.

"Hank said that flowers can kill, if you love someone, and they do not love you in return, Sumo," Connor will not recognize his voice; it seems to break down and crack, as if overgrown with hundreds of stems. "But ... How can they do harm? It's just flowers."

The dog steps from one paw to the other, snorts as if something is responding, something his own, which can not be understood at all, and Connor hugs him a little tighter. He does not know what to do, and what he does himself, does not know either; as if all his files were erased, as if the programs were stuck, and he was completely lost in this world.

"I would like to love someone, that all this was not so vain, Sumo."

The dog roars into his ear, and Connor reluctantly withdraws. He flips St. Bernard over the top of his head and smiles faintly at him. It’s possible that Hank might be wrong, and it's not so bad. Connor is not a human, so he can not suffocate from the petals in his throat. Perhaps this is just a ridiculous mistake, because Connor is not in love, which means that he has no reason to suffer from flower disease.

 

The morning starts quite well, as it seems to RK800. Hank stands up with the alarm clock and even eats up all the toast with jam that Connor was cooked for him. He is surprisingly quiet and when it is already time to leave the house and go to the department, Hank blocks the way to the street with his hand and shakes his head.

"Not today, kid," he says in a tone that does not accept any objections. "Today you have an unscheduled day off."

Connor looks at him in surprise, not immediately realizing the meaning of what was said. He does not need days off, his efficiency and endurance is high, he is able to work for about 146 hours without interruption, his systems are adapted to the intensive pace of work. He does not need a day off.

"Hank, I'm an android, we do not need..."

"Jeffrey came up to me yesterday." Hank looks at him, and Connor already understands what he will say next. There's no point in arguing, he already knows that he has no other option but to stay at home. "He asked me to talk with you about the fact that even androids could get exhausted. Here's my conversation, Connor. Androids can get exhausted, deviants even more so. So your plastic ass remains at home today. Objections are not accepted."

Hank waits for a nod and rather snorts. Connor is stubborn, but in this case he sees no reason to argue. Perhaps the fact that he is sick, somehow affects his appearance, even if Captain Fowler notices this.

"And, if you have a day off today, talk to Markus about the disease," finally utters Hank. "And do not overexert yourself. We do not need another flower on your body."

"I doubt that my appearance is promoted by my..."

"Bye. Sumo takes precedence."

Hank leaves, reminding about the call to Markus, and Connor does not need a reminder, because his memory always works perfectly, and this task is already on the main list for today. Like a walk with Sumo and his subsequent bathing.

 

The day off from work is like a page of a book where the chapter ends on the middle of the sheet, leaving half the page blank. A waste of paper; a waste of the day.

He manages to do everything in the first half of the day, filling his page for a quarter: he brought Sumo out for a walk, bathed him and almost floods the entire bathroom.

St. Bernard, although he looks sluggish, but when it comes to water, he's like a peppy puppy. He jumps out of the bath several times when Connor reached for the shampoo. All the splashes from his shakes turned out to be on Connor, who was trying to catch the dog and not fall on the wet tile. Fortunately, his perfect balancing saved him, and for the third time RK800 successfully washed away the foam from the happy St. Bernard.

After wrapping Sumo in two towels and a blanket, Connor finally wipes water from his face and sits next to the dog on the sofa. Sumo gives him a barking, and Connor seems to understand what he is trying to say. Markus is the second quarter of his blank page of his empty day.

The LED flashes a fast yellow when Connor tries to contact the leader of the deviants by mental connection and delays on a deep and solid golden when he does not receive an answer. After the second attempt, he stops and leaves a message.

_Markus, maybe you're busy right now, but I'd like to ask, will you mind if I stay today in Jericho? I have an unplanned day off, and playing the piano seemed to me not such a bad idea._

Connor does not consider it necessary to speak about his worries, it should be a private conversation, but he really would not refuse the idea of playing a musical instrument. He does not receive an answer to the message, which frustrates him quite strongly, and even Sumo is already reaching to lick his cheek and change the expression on his face from this unaccustomed and sad to something more lightly, with a touch of a smile.

Connor strokes his wet, coarse fur and feels a new flower blossom on his right shoulder. He is vexed with thinking that Hank will not be pleased with this. He stretches his hand under the T-shirt, wanting to find out what kind of a new flower has appeared, but when he just grabs his thin stalk, he does not have time to rip it off. The LED flashes yellow, signaling the incoming message, and Connor freezes for a moment. He listens to Markus' pleasant voice in his head and feels like an unknown new flower trembling under his fingers.

**_You do not even have to ask, our doors are always open to you. And you can use the piano too. It’s nice to know that you like it. Unfortunately, but I can not keep you company; I have several important appointments today. Someone has to work, right? And by the way, I'm very glad that you appear in Jericho more than once a week._ **

The message ends, and the heat after it does not go anywhere, it warms up as if Connor is sitting on the scorching sun. And Connor turns it on again, just listening to the voice, not paying attention to the words, because this feeling is suddenly so irrational, because the voice can not warm, and words can not embrace you like a blanket.

And Connor is so sad suddenly that he does not understand this, that he does not know anything about love. He is so sad that he can not get distracted by work today, but withers here, with the pressing thoughts and the wet St. Bernard on his knees. He is so sad that today he will not be able to meet Markus.

The new flower on his palm is like made of paper; trembling white petals, the dark core as if it were an ink dirty, which left the stains on the white petals.

 

****

**Papaver or Poppy is a genus of 70–100 species of frost-tolerant annuals, biennials, and perennials native to temperate and cold regions of Eurasia, Africa and North America. It is the type genus of the poppy family, Papaveraceae.**

****

**In the language of flowers symbolizes consolation.**

 

Connor looks at the flower, twists it by a thin stalk in his fingers and smoothes out almost transparent petals, ready to burst. Consolation. Connor is not sure that he needs it. He doubts that this little poppy can give him consolation.

___________

and for this chapter was painted a wonderful art! please, all the love for [this person](http://ankad.tumblr.com/post/177314010371/hanahakiau), because it was a wonderful gift for my birthday!

[ ](https://ibb.co/nDGmXp)


	7. Elderberry Flowers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a rather difficult period now, I don’t have time to write these stories more often, but I’m really trying to do some quick updates. Thanks for your patience and support!

[](https://ibb.co/m78x0f)   


The studio without Markus was as if extinguished, and Connor wandering around it like was he lost. He leafs through the books of philosophers and classics of the eighteenth century, looks into historical novels and plunges into a couple of collections with poetry. All of them are different and all are breathtaking from the first lines. However, Connor does not hurry; literature fascinates, gives birth in him and in his code new feelings, helps understand them.

Frankly, Connor never understood Markus' need for a library; Yes, almost all of these books belonged to Carl, they are important as a memory, but the android did not need such an ardent need for them. Any book is in the access, you only need to download the file, but Connor has repeatedly seen Markus sitting in the distance and reading, slowly turning the pages and seemingly going somewhere deep in the story he was getting acquainted with this time.

And to some extent, Connor liked this feeling that he was alive, was indescribable while he was flipping through a novel that had been taken off the shelf, glancing along the lines. Everything has changed since the time this book was written. Perhaps only the behavior of some people remained the same.

Connor managed to read a lot of things in Jericho. He even came across poems about the revolution. They caused confusion in him; he felt a kind of slight pride that in their revolution they won, and the sadness that the lines were riddled with the bitterness of losses. They lost many, too. And the slight interest in whether Markus reads these books, these poems about rebellions, creeps into Connor's mind.

Running his fingers through the rows of yellowed pages, he thinks he would like to play something like that. The music, which will be maroon-red hue.

He sits at the piano and lifts the lid easily. Fingers remember every note, and Connor's quick adagio warm up the piano keys. The melody ceases and immediately merges into the new, special, already personally Connor's melody. This time he uses a few octaves below the usual composition, and the music from under his fingers comes out rough, fragmented and bitter. His music takes on the color of rebellion, the color of fire and death, the color of life and hope. It shimmers with strength and gentleness, exudes power, and to the last chords it softens into a vulnerable one. In Connor’s thought of loss, in his sadness and grief, in his fear and devastation. In Amanda and the Zen garden, in snowdrifts and a soft unhurried loss of notes "mi" and "la" on a high octave. Frozen and scared notes.

Memories unpleasantly bites him, and Connor want to open his eyes as much as he want to continue playing, throwing out that stagnant and sick feeling.

It only seems that there are not enough fingers to cover everything. And the hysterical music turns into meek and quiet, acquires a cream-white shade with anxiety in the note "si" on the lower octave. And it breaks off just like a stalk is torn off. The silence rings softly, fills the studio and stays deep in Connor.

He sits in this silence and feels how with tension everything in him vibrates. To get a coin out of his pocket is not difficult, and Connor is distracted by it, calms this storm, that raging in his chest, and settles the waves that have risen inside him.

"I thought you had already gone home," Markus' voice heard from the door, but Connor is unable to turn to him. He seemed to have thrown all his strength into the music and nothing was left in him.

"Are you all right?"

Connor nods and looks at the keys under his fingers: it is possible that this question is addressed to the music he played? Maybe, but this is not at all what he want to hear now. He wants to ask about Markus’ work and his two important meetings, about whether he is distracting, or what he thinks about the melody. He would like to ask about many things, but in the priority task the question is only about flowers, and therefore RK800 is silent.

"I didn’t expect to meet you today at all." Connor says.

He runs his fingers over the keys, not pressing, but simply feeling the smoothness of the surface with the sensors, and there is no fear or embarrassment to start a conversation that something is wrong with him. He leads the fingers of his right hand over the piano keys and feels snowdrops burst through his skin on his wrist. Before coming to Jericho, Connor got rid of all the flowers, cut off all the stems, and now, without his uniform, in an ordinary T-shirt he felt vulnerable. That's why he keeps silent longer than he was supposed to. He is silent until Markus begins to frown; he is silent until RK200 comes closer and sits down next to him. And when Markus puts his hand on Connor's shoulder, it makes no sense to be silent anymore. Connor feels like the poppy next to the fingers of the leader of the deviants also wants to appear in the light.

"What's happening? What's bothering you?"

Connor was never an open book; he always supported even weak emotions in his perception, he was always cold and restrained, and now he seemed to crumble into to pieces. Perhaps he should not have played the piano and plunged into deeply buried anxiety. Maybe he shouldn't have remembered.

Markus patiently waits, but tries to do not look at Connor. He looks at the piano keys, at the bookshelves, at Connor's fingers. And no matter how much he wanted to help, he can hardly force him to accept this help. 

Hank called him. He contacted Markus after lunch, when RK200 just got up from the table in the conference room for a break. This was the second meeting for today, and even if the androids do not feel tiredness, Markus completely felt himself exhausted. And so the incoming call from Lieutenant Anderson to some extent did not seem so necessary to answer; Connor, in any case, had to warn Hank about that he would go to Jericho.

But Hank was not looking for Connor. His question was about something else, and now Markus sees what exactly bothered him. Now, sitting next to Connor, who looks so unusually lost, Markus understands Hank.

"I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say," Connor confesses and pauses again. It is like he is burrowing into this silence, he gives birth to faint sounds by pressing keys. "Hank says I'm sick. A rare flower disease. Androids do not get sick, this is not in the source code, but I do not know how else to call it."

"What kind of flower disease?"

Connor does not answer, only stretches his right hand palm up. Through his synthetic skin sprouting green stems of small snowdrops. Their petals are still closed, and they seem quite fragile, not ready to blossom. Markus pulls his hand and touches him gently. Connor watches him with an attentive look, and it seems to him that he feels this touch to his flowers. The feeling that Markus touches him, touches white plastic, and not synthetic skin, touches plexuses of wires and tubes underneath the hull. And the feeling is so strange that he want to pull the hand out of his fingers and ask to touch more, at the same time.

"A disease that makes flowers grows out of the body?" Markus asks, puzzled, and looks up at Connor. "Is it dangerous? How did you get it?"

"I don’t know. Diagnosis of the systems does not reveal any damage. It does not even recognize flowers as a foreign object in the body."

Connor looks at the snowdrops and breathes out briefly, quite humanly, in order to gather the data in one straight line rather than take a breath. Markus listens to him quietly and attentively, but his watchfulness is real in his eyes. Flowers in the android body are a failure of one of the programs, they do not belong here, because the thirium is toxic and every inflorescence will be poisoned. But Markus look at Connor, and he can say that the only one who is looks poisoned it's him. Markus never saw him in that condition.

"Hank says he has already met with a similar illness. It's human disease." A couple of finger gestures on the piano keys, and Connor had already built the narrative algorithm. "Symptoms were strikingly different; human is a living organism, and to grow through a dense layer of muscles, fats and skin for flowers is a difficult task. As indicated in the autopsy reports, flowers grew in the victim's lungs. Both of the cases that Hank faced were fatal and..."

"Are you saying now that these flowers," Markus points to the snowdrops, "can lead to your death?"

Connor nods and on Markus' gloomy expression adds:

“When there are too many of them, then the person suffocates. This was the case with Edna Marsh from Midtown in 2035, ”says Connor, taking data from the archive.

He extends his hand to Markus, slowly removing his synthetic skin and offering to share elements of this case.

Immediately, an image from the place of death appears. The forensic scientist records a video with his comments, but Connor mutes the sound, believing that what they sees will be enough. The practice of recording crime scenes is not new and is very convenient, but Connor still feels some contradictory actions. It is forbidden to distribute records from the archive, but Hank only shrugged at this, leaving a dry phrase that he was one of those who led this case, which means that he gives permission to use these materials.

 

**Case № 214.**

**October 24, 2035**

**Peterborough Street** **1020, Midtown, Detroit, MI.**

**Officers on call: Lt. Hank Anderson and Detective Michael Bronslin, forensic scientist Henry Stiages.**

**Details of the case: received a call from the android XN400, who discovered 32-year-old Edna Marsh, who died of asphyxiation. The cause of death is unknown.**

Connor casually glances at the dry lines of the protocol that pops up before his eyes, concentrating on the crime scene itself. He feels Markus close by, feels that he is also looking, and through their connection he feels how he is clenching his jaws.

The crime scene is a little blurred by the operator’s uneven hand. A woman of thin build with dark tousled hair is lying prone on the floor next to the bed. Petals soiled in dark blood clinging to her white-blue skin, and an empty look directed toward the window — before she died, she saw the sun rise over Detroit. There are traces of nails on her neck, characteristic of suffocation, destructive patches of crimson-red with a blue tint, and Connor does not cost anything to reproduce the picture of what happened. Here Edna Marsh, choking on the abundance of hyacinth petals in her lungs, falls to the floor from the bed and, clutching at the throat with her fingers, tries to inhale. Here from her throat, white petals wet from saliva and blood fall out like a lump of pinkish foam. Here she wheezes and rolls over to her side — her face becomes purple with blue streaks — and she does not take more breaths.

The picture is unpleasant, but in Connor it does not cause trembling or disgust, only a fraction of sadness. Edna died alone, maybe falling in love with someone so much that this love destroyed her. Connor shares this algorithm built by Markus with his detective program, infuses this information with a stream of codes and symbols, and does not expect any answer from him.

"As indicated in the report: the petals clung to her throat and overflowed with her lungs." RK800’s voice seemed to come from outside. "The second case occurred with..."

"Stop," Markus gently interrupts him, breaks the connection and returns them both back to a warm, sun-warmed studio. He looks at Connor with anxiety, which seems to be turning something inside, creates an understanding that he himself can become Edna Marsh, who is choking, scratching his throat with his nails, and dying from asphyxiation. 

"Connor, are you... Do these flowers harm you? Do they interfere with the work of biocomponents important for life? You had problems with..."

"No," Connor shakes his head and looks into Markus’ eyes, feeling him squeeze his hand tighter. And for a moment, he just want to remove the skin on his hand and cling to the connection with another android, with Markus. Not to share the memories, not to transfer the record from the crime scene, but just to feel that someone is there.

"Are you sure?"

Markus looks worried, Markus looks with the whole gamut of feelings that are still unknown to Connor, and it is so beautiful, such a storm is brought back to his mind that the flowers of the gardenia on the clavicle are sprouting.

"At 68 percent," an honest answer, but all of a sudden, even Connor himself doesn’t feel so confident.

"This is a rather weak indicator."

"Optimal," Connor corrects succinctly and still does not feel confident.

"What else is known? How did you get infected? There are no ways of treatment?"

"As far as I know, there are not very many of them. And about how I’ve got infected... Hank says that the flowers come from unrequited love."

"Are you ... in love with someone?"

Markus sounds surprised, and Connor does not blame him; he himself thinks this idea is so strange, so unbelievable in his system. And Connor nods at the question, looking again at the tiny snowdrops. The new portion of silence as if changes everything, and Connor simply can’t look up at Markus again. The deviant’s leader is always seems so confident in his own feelings, so easy to understand, and Connor is inevitably confused in everything he encounters.

He looks down and thinks that he has achieved nothing. This conversation did not give him anything but an alarming expression on Markus's face; his questions about the disease remained unanswered.

"Is Hank sure that this disease is fatal?"

Connor nods and, looking at Markus, realizes that maybe he did not want to ask. That, maybe, he asked this question only because he needed to fill the silence. That maybe the other question, which has remained unasked, is not so relevant now. Connor makes calculations and easily comes to the conclusion that maybe Markus wanted to ask about who the detective could be in love with. The question that does not even have an answer.

"We have several androids in Jericho that have worked in the medical field, maybe they can help."

"Thank you."

RK800 nods and tears the unopened snowdrops from the wrist, leaving them lying on the piano keys. A faint hope is still glimmering in him and Markus’ words feed him with it in some way — maybe one of the androids can help.

"Connor, how many flowers do you have?" the sudden question is a bit surprising, and the detective turns to RK200 a little confused.

"Seven species of different herbal families. On average, grows to five inflorescences of each type and..."

"Eight," Markus straightens a little tiredly and stretches out his hand to Connor’s face, to his right ear, into his hair. Just like when he discovered lilac flowers.

Now he gets the same tiny flowers, only white, and Connor looks at them with a slight disapproval, because he tried so hard not to look strange, vulnerable, and there is no other way with flowers in his hair, especially if they are not the first. Eighths. He looks at the white flowers and feels his right hand tremble slightly as he reaches for the coin.

 

**Elderberry.**

**Sambucus is a genus of flowering plants in the family Adoxaceae. The various species are commonly called elder or elderberry. The genus occurs in temperate to subtropical regions of the world. More widespread in the Northern Hemisphere, its Southern Hemisphere occurrence is restricted to parts of Australasia and South America. The plant is moderately toxic to mammals.**

**These flowers symbolize sympathy, kindness and humility.**

He throws a coin over the knuckles of his right hand and looks at the flowers, which stand out in such a contrast on Markus' dark skin. Perhaps, if the leader of the deviants didn’t have such a serious look on his face, Connor would not feel that way. So scared. And by sensations it doesn’t seem like a police risk of life. Here, Connor doesn’t feel control over the situation; here he can only pluck flowers from himself and conduct unnecessary diagnostics.

The coin rolls deftly between his fingers and falls to the floor, surprising Connor with this new sound. Markus picks up the coin and looks surprised, and the detective himself seems to be falling somewhere deep, falling after this very coin. He never dropped it before.

With his left hand, he takes the coin from Markus and confusedly looks at his right wrist, where the middle finger does not move, frozen in a ridiculous semicircle. The hitch takes a minute and the finger unbends and functions properly, but Connor is still wary looking at his hand. He wants to think that it doesn’t mean anything, which it’s just a trifle, a minor failure, but Connor knows that it’s isn’t. The first error window pops up, signaling overload in the system.

"Sorry, I have to go," Connor rises and leaves hastily, hearing Markus say goodbye to him.

The elderberry's flowers in his hair seem to be pushed into the background, remains on the list of secondary tasks. Now he is thinking about the motility of his own hands, but no more failures appear. Only prolonged sadness, white flowers behind the right ear, and purple behind the left. Sympathy and first love. Connor does not understand both of these feelings, and to understand them now, while tearing off branches and covering everything around with petals, it seems to him necessary.


	8. Pelargonium

[ ](https://ibb.co/mvub2A)

Connor carefully picks up flowers from his hair, tears off the buds from his neck and collarbone, tears off the stalks from his hands. He feels like something similar to fear sneaks into his system. He pulls up his shirt and fastens all buttons, straightens his tie and tears off the still unopened freesia bud at the bend of the neck. He holds his jacket in his hand while he waits for Hank. Guessing exactly what the lieutenant wants to say is not difficult - for this, even no analytical skills are needed - he is like an open book. But if Hank had said something about Connor staying at home on this day, the detective would not have remained silent. One half-empty sheet is enough for him.

However, Hank says nothing; he behaves as freely as possible and only frowns closer to dinner when Connor can not hold a folder with papers in his hand. The sheets are scattered on the floor, and the android immediately collecting them, but dropping them again. Hank looks at it for about a minute before interrupting Connor's chaotic movement with a resounding question.

“What the fuck are you doing? Just picks up this waste paper.”

Connor looks up at him, stretches his left hand to the papers and squeezes more confidently. As if his right hand is not listening, it freezes and even refuses to gently move a finger, not to mention clenching into a fist. And this is somewhat scary, because Connor doesn’t want to lose control of the body, but he cannot do anything about it. So he just pretend that everything is fine and to keep the LED on the temple in a blue glow so as not to worry Hank.

“What's the matter?” Hank asks, and before Connor can answer, he adds: “If you going to say that everything is fine, you better save this bullshit for your plastic friends.”

Hank looks anxiously at Connor and waits for him to fall on the floor and begins to cough with flower petals. He looks at Connor as if he would start choking and clawing at his throat like Edna Marsh. He expects the worst, not the minute failure in the motor skills of Connor's limbs.

“It's all right, Hank,” Connor says, rising to his feet and still trying to move at least one finger on his right hand. “It's just a minor problem with the motor system. It looks like the fingers on the right hand are stuck and...” 

“And you call that 'all right'?” Hank indignantly hums and turns around faster than Connor manages to realize it. “Henry should be there today, he knows the disease we are dealing with quite well.”

Hank says it, and Connor feels the first push of fatigue in the back; it is hardly easy to talk about your feelings and emotions with barely familiar people.

]The lieutenant rises, claps his hands on his pockets, checking whether he has not forgotten anything. This gesture is rather a habit, because Hank did not pull anything out of his pockets. Connor looks at him and Anderson’s concerned behavior makes even him tense. Perhaps he is right. 

“Get in touch with Markus, let him send his medic android,” Hank says and goes to the corridor, leaving Connor in mixed feelings.

Connor does not like these moments; he could still cope with one feeling, but when a storm of various emotions caught up with him, Connor, as if a frigate had broken loose from anchor, was sweeping through the waves, unable to seize control and inevitably going to the bottom.

Markus does not answer the call, ignores seven minutes and thirty-four seconds, until finally he gives up.

“Connor, you really are not at the right time,” Markus does not sound angry, but he also does not interrupt their connection, waiting for explanations. 

“You said there are androids in New Jericho who familiar with medicine. Maybe one of them could approach the department today? Hank insists on conducting a survey.”

“Are you okay?” 

The question is too sharp, overflowing with tension, and Connor unwillingly wants to return to what was before: to play the piano, to discuss successes in negotiations with the government. He does not want in any way Markus to worry about him.

“Yes, on the whole, but there are minor violations,” Connor says reluctantly, knowing that he will inevitably cause Markus’s anxiety, but he cannot leave him unanswered either.

“Well, what time do you want me to be there?” 

“The shift ends at eight. There may be unforeseen calls, but if it appears, I will inform you."

“Okay,” Markus breaks off the connection in a hurry, obviously not having the opportunity to talk longer, and Connor sits for some time, directing his eyes over his desk.

He has no idea what awaits him. He doesn't know how badly he can get worse.

 

Henry Stiages is man with deep dark eyes and two weeks beard. He is well-groomed and smiling, but with a cold look that makes him stand out as an astute professional; immediately gazes at the details in the clothes, body movements.

Connor sits in front of him in a chair and patiently waits for him to begin the survey. 

They are at the lower level of the police department, on a kind of medical floor where the laboratory is located. Henry does not work here all the time, spending his days more often in the central hospital in Detroit, which is a couple of blocks farther from here, but after another case, closely connected with murders, he spends about two days in the DPD laboratory. He has already freed his team, only a couple of people have stayed here, still filling out reports, but Connor does not see them.

“I have to connect you to the monitor to see your characteristics, do you mind?” Henry smiles and Connor nods. He has no problems with this.

Henry immediately sets up the remote access in the computer, and Connor puts his palm to the touchpad, removing the skin. Synchronization is successful, and data about the level of his stress, about the stability of the work of the thirium pump and about failures in the system already appear on the monitor. Connor looks at them and nods slightly. Everything is stable: the level of his stress is at the proper low level of 24 percent, the pump in his chest regularly beats off 56 beats per minute, with an accuracy of one blow. 

“Lieutenant Anderson?” 

A voice in the dynamics of a walkie-talkie attracts the attention of everyone in the room, except Henry, who does not notice anything. In his personal practice, an android who has become sick, is something new.

“What's the matter?” Hank answers the woman, who sits in the waiting room, a little rougher than he wanted, and he clears his throat before asking the question again a little softer. “What is the matter, Hadford? My shift is over.”

“There are two androids here,” officer Hadford says, and Connor looks up on Hank when he hears it. “They say that you are waiting for them.”

“Yeah. Write them a pass and send to -1, I will meet them here.”

Hank leaves the room hastily, leaving Connor alone with Henry, and they plunge into the oppressive, heavy and dreary silence. Connor comfortably wraps himself in it, but compares it only to the cold, which binds all his biocomponents. Stiages doesn’t like it at all and he breaks it easily.

“Support Group?” Henry looks into Connor’s eyes and cold confidence emanates from him, mixed with interest. 

“I'm not sure, that…”

Connor does not have time to agree: Hank appears in the doorway, enthusiastically telling something to Markus, and behind them the android, WE900, silently paces. For Connor seeing the leader of deviants is not at all expected; if RK800 correctly remembers the schedule of Markus, he should be at a press conference today, and not here. Connor did not expect him here today.

A frown on his dark face makes it clear that Hank has already talked about disturbance in the motor skills of his hand. And Connor is not particularly in a hurry to rise from the chair and head in their direction. He is too scared, too worried about everything. But Henry seems to think otherwise. He pats the android on the shoulder and nods toward the new arrivals:

“You can come, man. I do not hold you in a vice.”

Connor isn’t sure he wants to go, but he obediently moves forward, feeling quite a bit vulnerable without his jacket, which he took off before taking a seat next to Stiages.

“You said that everything was alright with you,” Markus looks at him offended, but Connor feels no guilt, just a little disarray. For him, this is still just a simple disturbance that can be easily corrected. But Markus does not seem convinced of this, he seems to be sure of the opposite, and Connor momentarily turns his gaze to Hank, who without a doubt could embellish his story. The probability of this is 68 percent. 

“I'm fine, everything is normal,” Connor nods at the monitor, where his condition is displayed, but this hardly convinces Markus. He looks briefly at the detective's right hand, that hanging along the body and still not functioning, and turns to his companion.

“This is Alma,” he represents WE900. “She was one of the leading android medics at Detroit Central Hospital. She is the best specialist we have.”

“Hello, Connor.”

Her smile is somewhat like Henry's smile; sincere only in part, more professional, but with an echo of machine. It is still difficult for some androids to express their thoughts correctly, not to smirk and to transfer feelings through facial expressions.

“Markus told me about the problem,” Alma continues. “I met with a similar disease in people. We managed to save some of them.”

She speaks, and Connor feels like she scanning all his systems with her gaze. He does not mind; for the sake of this, he is here, but the feeling of someone mentally climbing under his synthetic skin, under the plastic frame of his body, is not the most pleasant thing.

For her model WE900 looks like usual; Connor has seen them more than once in hospitals and ambulances. Even now, although it is not necessary, she is dressed in her own uniform, once provided by CyberLife, ready to work. The only difference from other models that catches the eye immediately is the ugly patch on her neck, soldered with a hot iron and which the synthetic skin does not cover, which remains visible as a proud scar from the victory in the revolution.

“I don't believe it! Alma, dear, is that you?” Henry's voice with enthusiastic notes as if ripping Connor out of his thoughts, and he watches WE900 pass to the man, stretching her lips in a polite smile. “Nice to see you again.”

While Alma exchanges courtesies with the forensic scientist, discusses with him the plan for further action and the system on which to conduct this survey, Connor feels awkward. He looks at how the android communicates with the human, hears how they exchange opinions about his illness, and again tries to squeeze the fingers on his right hand. Nothing works, only the level of stress increases by one percent.

“She’s a good specialist,” Markus steps closer and puts a hand on Connor’s shoulder. “She saved many people when she worked in the hospital. And she helped a considerable number of injured androids, after we were shot at a peaceful march. We will do our best to help you.”

Markus speaks sincerely, and Connor feels it, but he doesn't want to comment anyway. Somehow it has even become customary for Connor to find flowers on his body, collect them in bouquets and in the mornings leave them on the table of officer Hadford. Not because she is pretty or he can be feel something towards her, but simply because there is nowhere else to put them - all the boxes, all the bins are overflowing. Samantha Hadford is married, and she takes the flowers are only because Connor looks at her penetratingly, with an admixture of sadness. Maybe that when she refused to accept them for the first time and he threw an armful of flowers into the trash bin, this somehow influenced on her decision.

And now, listening to Markus, who says that they will try to help him, Connor does not know what to feel about this. 

“I thought you were at a press conference,” says RK800, turning to him. “You didn't have to cancel everything for the sake of a simple survey.”

A fine line. Connor feels it here; in Markus’s gaze, in Hank’s arms folded across his chest, in Henry’s clenched jaws and in Alma’s old medical uniform. The fine line where he alone understands that everything is not so bad. A fine line where everyone else knows that things can get much worse. And it is here, while he is looking at Markus, in these fractions of seconds, he realizes why everything is like that. Somewhere deep in his program it is inherent that he should not have the fear of death. Somewhere deeply woven into the program code, which is comparable to the risks encountered in the work, that all these settings are almost zero.

“You're the first android who got sick,” Markus simply says, and Connor almost misses the thread of their conversation, solving the riddle of why he does not feel the anxieties that torment the rest. “I’m kind of supposed to be here to know what to expect from this disease. Moreover, you are my friend.”

Friend. Perhaps this is indeed a weighty reason, Connor does not argue, just suddenly he understands that with the presence of Markus there is a little better than without him. And he nods, makes another attempt to bend his fingers and fails again.

“We are ready to proceed,” Alma’s voice is smooth and devoid of any emotion, and Connor nods to her, coming back to his chair.

“To begin, we'll ask a few questions, because what Hank told me somewhat puzzled me,” Henry settles in the chair opposite and nods toward the lieutenant, who is located at the far wall with Markus. "It would be nice if you were telling the truth."

Connor obediently nods and feels the second poppy bloom on his shoulder today. He looks at how Alma sorts out a small suitcase, pulls out a pair of packages with thirium, large surgical nippers and drainage tubes. He is not sure that today they planned any other actions besides the survey, but her small arsenal really impresses him.

“So, let's start with the simplest: how long did the first flower bloom?” Henry doesn’t look like he is going to stretch the dialogue, his question is harsh and precise, and Connor to some degree feels like he’s under interrogation.

“27 days ago,” he says evenly. “July 6th.”

Henry does not write anything, makes no marks, and just looks at Connor carefully, looking for sprouts of inflorescences on his body. RK800 is sure that Henry has already found at least four of those that are hidden under his shirt.

“Well, how many are there now? How many species? Hank said that you have not the only type of growing.” 

“Eight species from different flower families, among them two shrubby.”

Henry clears his throat a little and rises from his chair, coming closer.

“This disease is very rare,” he begins. "Its symptoms in humans are uncontrolled growth of plants in the internal soft tissues, lung and heart. The reason for their appearance is unrequited love, no matter how funny it sounds. Hank says you're not in love with anyone."

“That's right,” Connor looks in the direction of Anderson, frowning, but not surprised by the answer, unlike Markus, who frowns slightly and asks Hank. What exactly he asks Connor can not hear, although he does not try properly, instead, looking at Henry again. 

“Are you sure? There are no feelings tormenting you? You do not need someone? I understand that for deviants feelings are new, but feels like that, unrequited, it is palpable. Have you ever felt pain?” 

“Androids are not feel the pain,” Connor inserts, and Henry gives a little laugh.

“Not physical pain,” he says, and Alma nods. “This pain is like ... what can it be like?”

Henry frowns as he comes closer and touches Connor’s right hand, feeling the synthetic skin and touching the snowdrops. He can’t find the words in any way and shrugs when Alma’s voice, even and calm, reaches to every corner of the room.

“As if all your biocomponents quiver and burst. As if the system is bursting and buzzing. It’s as if you’re about to disconnect, but the reload command is not working.”

Connor looks at her and does not see in her the sadness of which she speaks. He never felt anything like it, but suddenly he understands what it is to love unrequitedly. Scary and intolerable.

“Androids came to me with these torments of unrequited love and asked to help, but this cannot be helped.” 

“You can stop loving,” from his place throws Hank. “Time usually helps in this case.”

Nobody answers him. It’s as if everyone plunges deep into this sick feeling, and everyone stays with what he would like to say, but could not. Connor thinks about what it is - to love someone so much that it hurts you.

“You do not feel anything like that, am I right?” Henry asks, and when Connor shakes his head, he sighs. “Then proceed to the survey. Can you take off your shirt?”

While Connor pulls off the fabric, Alma sits down at the table and draws closer to her all the tools that she managed to reach. Connor catches her gaze on himself, on the poppies on his shoulder, and already knows about what she is going to do — look under his body. He diverts from her when he feels a touch; Henry examines the gardenias on his collarbone. 

“How do your biocomponents interact with flowers? No alarms reported?” he inspects the stem of poppies, studies the base where the flowers go to synthetics, and slides down to the heather branch on the inner bend of the elbow.

“Everything is fine, today only there was a failure in the motor system,” Connor tries to make a fist again. “Fingers on the right hand refuse to work.”

“Too many flowers, I suppose,” he finishes exploring snowdrops and lowers Connor’s hand, now giving Alma complete control over it. “Well? Will we help your mobility back?"

“Deactivate the skin on this arm, and I will remove the panel.”

Connor nods and glances first at Hank and then at Markus. He feels no fear or trepidation, nothing but impatience to regain his arm mobility. But on their faces the tension is readable when Alma removes the top panel from Connor’s hand. She frowns a little, and Henry purses his lips when they lean over the right hand of RK800. 

“This is ... not very good,” says Henry, and turns to Hank. "In fact, it is even very bad."

Connor lowers his gaze to his hand and finally understands their reaction. Under the body he has everything in dark green. Weaves of stems and roots, sandwiched between the vein tubes, buds and leaves wrapping a steel skeleton. Thirium does not enter the hand, the tubes are squashed by a knot of the roots of one of the flowers and the thin stems of the other plant fill the phalanges of the fingers so that small sprouts on the folds adorn tiny sprouts. And now Connor understands why the forceps were need.

“I'll do it,” Alma nods and smiles at Connor for the first time in the entire survey. This smile is encouraging, and, to some extent, not entirely sincere, as one of those prescribed by the program, but even with such a smile, RK800 becomes calmer.

She removes the skin from her hands, picks up one of the stems with a careful and precise movement with her fingers and slightly delays it. And it is depressing for Connor to watch as she nibbles thin, defenseless flowers with nippers, pulls out sprouts from his hand and tears off the still unopened buds. It seems to him that he feels how every flower cut off from him, as if something is broken in him, squeaks in the system, although the indicators on the monitor change only by two percent.

Alma acts neatly and quickly, eliminates the stalks that sprouted in his right hand, and Connor finally moves his fingers. For him, this is a relief, but a look at the dark green stalks and leaves, stained in his thirium, which they are fed by, as if they are grieving.

“I cannot remove them all, not here and not now,” says Alma, when she finishes and is satisfied with the look of the android hand that is familiar to her. There were sprouts making their way out of the flowers, their roots leading up to the shoulder, where Alma could not reach. “They will still grow, but ...” 

“Is there a way to get rid of the disease?” Markus gives voice, rising from his seat.

“Two, as far as I know,” Henry intercepts the question, and Alma agrees, nods. “First and most favorable - if your love interest loves you back. This option does not suit us, because Connor is not in love. This is a mistake in his system, and the only option that remains is one of the most unpleasant.”

“Which one?”

Henry nods to Alma and allows her to say everything herself, while she cuts off a pattern of flowers from Connor's body. The RK800 itself listens carefully, interested in this strange second method.

“Surgical. Not the way I did now, but deep. With the removal of all the roots and sprouts,” Alma sighs, looking at Markus. “And this is just the most unpleasant. Feelings, Markus. All feelings and emotions also disappear along with the flowers. This happens in humans, but I doubt that with androids it could be otherwise.”

There is a long silence in the room. Everyone understands it so perfectly: to losing what you gained recently, which you almost pulled out with difficulty for yourself, is the hardest.

Connor glances down at the table and frowns, it's so unfair! He has a mistake in the system, he didn’t want it, he didn’t ask anyone about it, and now his choice is not great at all - either let the flowers bloom and slow down all his systems, allow sprouts to stop the pump in his chest, or tear them all up by the root with feelings, along with deviation. Back to this time, when he was a machine, it doesn't seem so scary. This seems to be nothing; deaf and empty, because Connor already had so much to feel.

“Sorry, there are no other ways. Of course, we can conduct such operations, cut out flowers in parts, but...”

“You can't to do that for long,” Connor nods knowingly, rising. “Thank you, Mr. Stiages, Alma.”

“What we did today is not enough,” says Henry, packing flowers in jars and hiding them in the refrigerator. “If possible, I will conduct an analysis with my team. And we will need to see what you have here.”

The man bangs his finger on Connor's chest, and gives him a weak, sympathetic smile. Almost everyone supports his mood, but no one speaks out loud about it.

“We can set up the next meeting in Jericho,” says Alma. “There are components and tools necessary for such an operation.”

Henry nods, and nothing remains to Connor except to listen, buttoning up his shirt and picking up his jacket. On his face does not reflect that void, which overshadows everything inside. Leaving the office, he thanks Henry and Alma again, rests his gaze on his feet again and feels an irresistible thirst just to return to Hank's home and rest on the warm side of Sumo. The right hand now feels normal, but the feeling that something inside has been damaged is so bright. And the feeling that she is about to tremble, is about to crumble into petals, does not let go.

“Connor.”

Markus in the corridor appears almost suddenly; Connor did not even notice how he followed him. They do not sink into silence, but they also do not say anything, because the voices of Hank and Henry are carried even beyond the limits of the office and simply do not allow it. They, however, do not need this; Markus, without any words, understands everything, and Connor looks at him with a bewildered look, not sure that there will be such words that could convey everything.

And Connor steps closer, rests his forehead against Markus’s shoulder and covers his eyes, feeling as if something inside him is breaking. And they stand like this, when Markus puts his arm around Connor's belt. Connor grabs his shirt on his back and speaks without a word, according to the mental connection, because he can not say more. 

“I didn’t want it. I’m not ready to go back to what I was. I want to feel.”

“I know. We will try to find a way to help you,” Markus says firmly out loud because he can, and because he wants Connor to hear him.

Connor nods weakly, pulls away and frowns a little at the already familiar feeling; the flower blooms slowly, this time on the left shoulder. RK800 takes with his fingers the flower that has opened the thin petals and pulls it out into the light, allowing Markus to also look at the new plant.

 

****

**Pelargonium. Genus of herbaceous perennial plants of the family Geranium. Its homeland is India and South Africa. In the genus Pelargonium, there are 6 cultivated species.**

****

**It symbolizes support, comfort or a request to be close.**

 

The silence between them does not seem heavy, as light and weightless as the pale pink flowers on the Connor's palm.

And Connor feels this support, collects it piece by piece and thinks that, maybe, if he loved someone, it would be easier. This ephemeral pain would not be so bearable, but at least justified. All these heavy thoughts from the inevitable choice between one unpleasant perspective and another, even more undesirable would be justified.

Their privacy violates the creaking of the door and the sullen Hank leaving the office after an intense conversation with Henry.

“Okay, let's go,” Hank turns softly to Connor, pats him on the shoulder and nods at the elevator door. “Sumo, probably already missed you.”

And no one argues with him; Connor easily throws Pelargonium into Markus’s hands and asks that he pass it on to Alma, and Hank gratefully thanks the leader of the deviants as he says goodbye. They leave the DPD, and Connor all the way to the house just touches snowdrops on his wrist.


End file.
